Home Front (22 page)

*   *   *

If Dante had lived in modern times, Michael had no doubt that going to the mall with your daughters would have qualified as one of the circles of hell. Especially when you were there to find a birthday present for your twelve-year-old daughter’s on-again best friend. So far, they’d been here an hour and found nothing. He was so tired of looking at glittery headbands and ripped-neckline tee shirts and posters of boy bands he could scream.

They were in Wal-Mart now, drifting through the makeup aisle. Lulu was like a pitbull straining on a leash; she kept grabbing Michael’s hand and surging forward, yanking him toward some cheap, sparkly thing.

“There,” Betsy said, pointing to a small, neon-pink case that held an array of makeup items. “She’d like that.”

“Is Sierra allowed to wear makeup?”

Betsy gave him the Look. “I’m the only one who can’t.”

He looked at her, seeing the mascara smudges beneath her eyes and the blush that looked like war paint. “Right. And you don’t. Fine. Get it. Let’s go.”

“It’s expensive.”

“Get it.” He would have paid anything, really, just to get out of there.

Lulu said, “I want something, Daddy,” and tugged at his hand.

“I need wrapping paper and a card,” Betsy said.

Michael was pretty sure he groaned aloud. Still, he followed her out of the makeup aisle and toward whatever came next, all the while listening to Lulu shout:
Stop, Dad! I want that and that and that!

In the gift-wrap aisle, Betsy stopped so suddenly Michael ran into her. Lulu yelled, “Geez, Betsy—”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Betsy said.

“Come on, Betsy, can you wait ’til—”

She turned on him. “
Now.
”

She said it so forcefully, he frowned. With another sigh, he followed her to the restrooms, although it set Betsy off, caused her to hiss at him to stop following her, but what could he do? Lately he’d developed an irrational fear that he’d lose one of the kids. He had nightmares where he said to Jo,
I don’t know, I just looked away for a second.

He sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs to wait.

“Daddy, play patty-cake,” Lulu said, raising her hands like a mime.

“Huh?”

Before Lulu could start whining, Betsy came out of the bathroom, looking pale and terrified. She moved awkwardly, as if her knees didn’t bend right anymore.

He rose, instantly worried. “Betsy?”

She glanced around. When he said her name again, louder, she flinched. “Shhhhh.”

He moved closer. “Honey? What is it?”

Betsy looked up at him. Her mouth was unsteady, her eyes huge. “I started my period.”

Michael’s stomach literally dropped. “Oh.”

“What’s a period?” Lulu said loudly and Betsy clamped a hand over her sister’s mouth.

Lulu immediately shrieked.

“Stop it, Lulu,” Michael hissed. To Betsy he said, “What do we do?”

“I need … something.”

“Something. Right.” What she needed was a woman, but that wasn’t going to happen. He took hold of her hand and led her back through the store. She walked woodenly, kept putting her hands behind her, hiding the back of her pants.

Feminine Products
.

There was no doubt about that. He stared at the rows of multicolored packaging, trying to figure out what she needed.
Wings! Adhesive strips! Absorbent!

Betsy looked like she was ready to vomit. “Hurry, Dad. Pick one.”

Come on, Michael. Step up to the plate. She
needs
you now.
“Okay,” he said firmly, moving closer to the products, reading the packages.

“Dad,” Betsy said under her breath, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Come on.”

He had no idea what made one product better than the other, so he chose the most expensive and handed it to her.

Betsy gasped. “I can’t buy it. What if someone I know is there? Oh, my
God.
”

“Right.” He nodded. “I’ll meet you at the restrooms.”

Betsy flushed with gratitude and ran off. Michael hefted a wiggling, complaining Lulu into his arms. All the way to the checkout, she sang “periodperiodperiod” at the top of her lungs. He smiled awkwardly at the lady who rang up the sale, and then hurried back to the bathrooms, carrying a small plastic bag.

Betsy waited for him by the back wall, tapping her foot.

“Do you … uh … know how to use these?” he asked.

“It’s not rocket science, Dad.” He could tell that she wanted to be sarcastic, but her voice wasn’t sharp enough. She took the package and ran into the restroom.

At least fifteen minutes later, Betsy came out of the bathroom slowly, staring at Michael. She looked scared and young; ironic, since this was supposed to be the start of womanhood. Slowly, she turned around. “Can you see anything?”

“No,” Michael said softly. “Your pants are fine.”

“Phew,” Betsy said.

“Can we
go
now?” Lulu whined.

Michael picked up his youngest, and off they went, headed once again for the gift-wrap aisle. By the time they’d picked out the paper and the card and bought Scotch tape and ribbon, Lulu was out of control, but her wailing and pointing was easier to take than Betsy’s silence.

Michael’s heart went out to her. He knew this was one of those moments that would be filed away and remembered as a day her mother had been disappointingly gone and her father had let her down.

He wanted to give her something that would take the sting out of this memory when she looked back on it. He was thinking that as they passed the jewelry counter. “Hey, Betsy,” he said, “do you want to get your ears pierced? They’re having a special today.”

Betsy gasped and then grinned, showing off the red, white, and blue rubber bands on her braces. “Mom says I have to be thirteen.”

“You’re close enough. And you’re … a woman now, I guess,” he mumbled, uncomfortable saying it. “And we don’t have to tell your mom.”

Betsy threw her arms around Michael and hugged him tightly. “Thanks, Dad.”

“What? Me TOO!” Lulu said, her voice rising.

Michael winced. Really, his youngest daughter had a screech worthy of some prehistoric bird caught in a trap. He looked around, sure people were staring.
Please, Daddy, pleasepleaseplease …

Dear Mom:

Dad says I have to write you a letter so I am. I started my period. In Walmart. With Dad.

He bought me pads that were like twin mattresses. Sierra’s mom says that’s what happens when you send a man to do a woman’s job Ugh.

Thanks for not being there when I needed you.

AUGUST

Man, it’s hot. I am getting so used to my own sweat and stink that I don’t even smell it anymore. I’m starting to dream about ice. When I sleep, that is.

The commander called a meeting last night. He told us what we already knew—the missions are getting more dangerous. We’re getting shot at all the time and we land under fire. We’re going to be doing a lot more air assaults, apparently. Yay.

And Betsy started her period without me. Honestly, I can’t even write about that, it makes me feel so bad. I’m missing her life. Missing it.

*   *   *

In the middle of August, Dr. Cornflower delivered his psychiatric evaluation on Keith. His diagnosis: extreme post-traumatic stress disorder. Further, the doctor gave the opinion that Keller was competent to stand trial, that he fully understood the nature of the proceedings.

That meant the trial was a go. A court date had been set.

Michael looked out at the collection of eager, ambitious young faces seated around him. They were at a conference table. Each of the three associates chosen for the defense team had graduated at the top of his or her class and worked at least sixty hours a week. To be a great criminal defense attorney, you had to be hungry, and they were.

“So we have our start. PTSD, as you know, is a diminished-capacity defense, which means we will use it to negate intent. We’ll prove that Keith couldn’t form the specific intention to kill his wife; without intent, it’s not murder one. I don’t have to tell you all that anything less would be a victory in this case. However, juries don’t like diminished capacity much more than they like insanity, so we’ll need experts, eyewitnesses, and statistics.” He assigned tasks—some would research sentencing, some jury instructions, some precedents in Washington State and elsewhere. Others would draft the crucial pretrial motions. “I want to find
any
case
anywhere
where PTSD—especially with regard to Iraq—was successful and any case in which it was argued. I will want a draft of our notice to raise the defense by Monday. Hilary, you get started on that. You have all the reports and expert information you need. Make sure you meet all the evidentiary rules. Are there any questions?”

Silence.

“Good.”

Michael stood, and the team did the same. As they walked out of the conference room, he repacked his briefcase and headed back to his office. For the next few hours, he worked at his computer, pulling up every case with a PTSD defense that he could find.

On the ferry ride home, he was still at it. He read Cornflower’s report again, specifically focusing on Keith’s telling of his own story.

In Ramadi, we used to bet on whose tent would be hit by mortar next … I was walking back from taking a piss when a mortar landed in our Howitzer … we couldn’t do shit … they burned up alive in there, screaming … And there was bagging—picking up body parts … legs, arms … we put ’em in bags and carried ’em back. It’s weird to grab your buddy’s arm …

Michael put down the report.
What was happening to Jolene over there? What was she seeing?
Once the question arose, he couldn’t ignore it. He thought about his wife, and for the first time he imagined the worst …

It was still light outside—lavender and beautiful—when he parked in front of the Green Thumb.

His mother met him at the door, looking worried.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

She brushed his apology aside with an impatient wave. “Betsy is upset. That girlfriend of hers—Sierra—called her an hour ago and told her that a female helicopter pilot was shot down today. I tried to calm her, but…”

Michael glanced past his mother; he saw Lulu in the corner, seated at a garden display table, pretending to serve her doll tea in a paper cup. “Where is she?”

“Outside, by the big rock.”

Michael nodded. “We’re going to the Pot for dinner. You want to join us?”

“I’d love to, but I can’t. Helen and I are changing the window display tonight. Labor Day’s coming up—the big sale starts.”

He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Ma.” With a sigh, he headed through the store, past the shelves full of knickknacks and planters and gardening tools. At the back door, he paused for just a moment, gathering his strength, and then he went out to the parking lot that ran between the Front Street stores and the marina. A huge gray boulder sat on a patch of grass overlooking the docks. For as long as he’d lived here, kids had scrambled up, down, and around the rock. Now, he saw his daughter sitting on top of it, her blond hair tousled by the warm summer breeze, her gaze turned out to sea. Hundreds of boats bobbed on the flat calm waters below.

He came up beside the rock. “Hey, you,” he said, looking up.

She looked down at him, her pale, pimply face ravaged by tears. There was an alarming flatness in her eyes. “Hi, Dad. You’re late.”

“Sorry.”

As he stood there, trying to dredge up some words of wisdom, her watch alarm bleeped. Betsy yanked the watch off and threw it to the ground.

He bent over and picked it up, heard the
beep-beep-beep
that his wife was listening to at this very moment, a world away. For a moment, he imagined it, imagined
her,
looking down at her watch, probably feeling so far from home.

“Your mom’s fine,” he said at last. Honestly, all of this had been easier before the Keller case, when he could believe in Jolene’s optimistic letters and assurances of safety. Now, he knew better. How was he supposed to comfort a child when her fears were reasonable and he shared them? “It wasn’t her, Betsy.”

Betsy slid down from the rock. “It could have been.”

“But it wasn’t,” he said quietly.

Her eyes watered at that, her mouth wavered. He could see her composure crumbling. “This time,” she said.

“This time.”

“I’m forgetting her,” Betsy said, reaching into her pocket for the latest picture Jolene had sent, lifting it. “This … this isn’t her. She isn’t only a soldier.”

What could he say that wasn’t a lie? “Let’s go to the Crab Pot and look at the picture of her. That will make you remember.”

She nodded.

It wasn’t enough.

He reached for her hand. Sometimes holding on was all you could do.

*   *   *

After dinner, Michael led the girls into the house and watched them run upstairs. He felt drained. He should have known how affecting dinner at the Crab Pot would be. Jolene’s spirit had been so strong there. Lulu and Betsy had spent a good ten minutes staring up at the Polaroid picture of their mom tacked to the wall. Lulu wouldn’t even eat—she just held on to that little wings pin and cried.

He poured himself a drink and stared out the window at the night just beginning to fall across the bay. He heard Lulu come up behind him. She climbed monkeylike up his body, attaching to his hip. “Betsy is crying, Daddy,” she said in that squeaky voice of hers.